


Flora Reinhold and the Home Front

by a_mere_trifle



Series: Professor Layton and the Gentleman's Treason [10]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Adoptive Relationships, Angst, Coming of Age, Ethical Dilemmas, Gen, Robots, strange alliegances, what is human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:53:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21667741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_mere_trifle/pseuds/a_mere_trifle
Summary: When she receives an urgent message from home, Flora must enlist the aid of the last person she ever would have expected in order to return. She'll have a decision to make there, the most important decision of her life to date, but will there be a right answer? And will she be able to follow through?
Series: Professor Layton and the Gentleman's Treason [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/987004
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	Flora Reinhold and the Home Front

**Author's Note:**

> If you're looking for a Flora fic, this should stand alone pretty well. All you really need to know is that Flora's currently living at a boarding school, due to threats on the Professor's life, which he has teamed up with Don Paolo to deal with.

-*-

Flora had been thinking for three days now-- possibly three days too many. The situation was urgent. She had to do something. She still wasn't sure she knew what.

But she'd figured out where to begin.

It wasn't nighttime, but it almost looked it; the rain was steady, thrown occasionally by a wild gust of wind perilously near her face. Her umbrella was excellent, but it could do little to protect her coat and skirts. They would dry, though, and her upper body was merely dampened.

The indigo bird on her shoulder let out a mournful whistle, as if depressed by the weather. It looked like a tropical thing; it would only be logical for it to dislike this rain. She couldn't think of many creatures that would enjoy it, come to think of it; but still...

She shook her head. She was almost there, and it didn't do to look too distracted in this part of town. There were the doors; she glanced at the number above them, crossed the street with a determined air, and slipped inside them.

The lobby was dark. She'd seen better-equipped facilities, but it looked respectable enough. She snapped her umbrella shut, shaking it as best she could; she glanced at the coat rack near the door, but was hesitant to risk it. She hated to drip on the carpet, but it looked like the carpet had seen worse. Besides, rolled up correctly, it should stay contained enough.

Room 314 was near the back stairs, which made her wonder if he'd chosen it deliberately, or if it had merely been the only room available. She had one last chance to hesitate. She could go back, to the library where she was supposed to be, catch the play she'd claimed she'd be watching tonight. She could let it all go; she could think longer, come up with another way.

Instead, she knocked.

What she'd do if he weren't in, she'd no idea. Probably sit out in the corridor like a lost puppy. But there were sounds behind the door, familiar grumblings, clear enough to hear the words as the locks started to un-catch. "For the last time, I've told you I'm not interested in any of your--"

The door opened, and the words stopped. His mouth was open; she hadn't expected to strike him speechless.

"Don Paolo," she said.

His mouth snapped shut. "What the devil are you doing here?"

"I need your help," she answered.

"Look, I'm not looking to get into any hot water with your Professor at the moment--" He still sneered out the word 'Professor' like others would 'celebrity' or 'tax collector'. "--so whatever idea you've got in your head, I'll have none of it."

"Yes, you will." Impertinence seemed the least of her concerns.

"Oh, will I." He folded his arms. "And why is that?"

"Because I need you to take me back to my village," she said. "Tonight."

His eyes narrowed. "They'd flay me alive if I stepped foot in that town," he said.

"I think it would be pitchforks and torches, actually," she said. "But they won't. Not if you're with me."

He was silent for a moment, glaring suspiciously. "And what do I get in return?"

"You'll get a chance to examine the robots, a chance to make off with any research we come across, and a chance to score a point against the Professor with him none the wiser by helping me leave the city right under his nose," said Flora. "Is there anything else you could possibly need?"

His glare grew fiercer and more speculative. "What are they teaching you in that school he's got you in?"

"Almost enough," she said, and sighed. "We'll need to be off soon if I'm to be back in the city by tomorrow. Where's whatever new flying thing you've created?"

"...The roof, actually," he said. He stepped outside, locking the door behind him. He didn't look happy, but he was in.

The indigo songbird chirupped as Don Paolo turned around. "Why now? Why me? And what the devil is that?"

"Those are all the same question, actually," she said, stroking the bird's head. "I can tell you on the way, if you must."

"Of course I _must_. Let's go."

He stalked toward the stairs, and she followed, readying her umbrella. It was only one flight more to the roof; she wondered how he had gotten the owners to agree to let him park the thing there, wondered if they knew. He hid whatever he was doing with the roof lock to open it from her, which was an argument against the latter. It was done quickly, though, and she opened the umbrella in front of them, quick enough to save them from the worst of the gust.

"Your timing is simply impeccable," Don Paolo snarled, fording ahead toward a vague lump. The craft, she assumed, hidden under a tarp, though it was nearly impossible to tell in this weather. He pulled the covering off, rolling it up impatiently in his arms before tossing it aside. It wasn't quite the same as the one he had chased them in before, but it was close. A bit more elegant, perhaps, though there was still something distinctly cobbled-together about it.

He opened the side hatch, gesturing to her in a parody of a polite gesture; she nodded graciously and made her way in. It wasn't spacious, but it was built for one person and a fair haul of cargo; she would fit just fine.

Don Paolo clambered in front, closing the hatch behind him-- she felt scared for a moment, claustrophobic, though she reminded herself that this time she had walked into this willingly. Not another kidnapping. Not locked away. He'd be facing away from her to pilot, which was a comfort. He began to flip switches and pull levers, all unlabeled, in some precise sequence she couldn't begin to understand. The bird chirped from its perch on her shoulder, as the engines started to roar. Perhaps it would be too loud in here to hear.

The craft began to rise, creating a peculiar but not entirely unfamiliar sensation in her stomach. It was nearly straight up at first, gaining altitude, then started on its way, rising as it went. It was a smooth rise, despite the rain; he wasn't a bad pilot. And the engines, she noted regretfully, were dying down to a quite tolerable hum. Oh, well.

"So, little girl," said Don Paolo. "Are you planning on telling me _why_ you are dragging me back to St. Mystere?"

"If I can't avoid it, which seems likely enough. And it's hardly dragging."

"If I were you, I'd plan to start now."

Flora sighed. She'd known it would happen, so she couldn't be too terribly disappointed. "Three days ago," she said, slowly, wanting to drag this out if she could, "this bird came tapping at my window."

She waited for a leading question. Don Paolo just glared; she could see his reflection if she looked for it. Reluctantly, she went on. "It was carrying a letter for me. From... I'm never sure if I should call it 'home'."

"So it is robotic," said Don Paolo. She wondered how he'd guessed. The man was really quite good at what he specialized in.

"Yes. Though it's feathered, and warm, and the mechanism even sounds like a heartbeat. How did you know?"

"Call it a hunch," he said. Which wasn't much of an answer, but she wasn't going to get much better from him now.

She went on. "The letter was from Bruno. You never met Bruno, did you? He was a mechanical engineer. A roboticist. Years ago, he came under the employ of my father. He's never said how he came to my father's attention, though..."

"This Bruno would be the one behind all this?"

"Yes. He created all of St Mystere, from the ground up. The inhabitants, anyway. He's been there for over a decade, now, performing maintenance--"

"That kidnapper of theirs."

"Right. They're really marvellous creations, but they do have a weakness; they break down within weeks, maybe a month without constant maintenance."

"Bah." Don Paolo scowled; she could hear it in his voice, see it in the reflection on the windshield. "That's a hassle."

"It is. Worse, he couldn't entrust it to anyone else without giving away the secret."

"Why not build a robot for it?"

"They're not that sophisticated. They seem smart at first, I know. But spend long enough with them, and you get a sense of their limits. You can't even tell one it's a robot, that sort of-- breaks its mind. I tried, once or twice." It had gone badly. But that was plain enough.

Don Paolo's eyes narrowed. "And how long has he been at this?"

"Over ten years now. Maybe twenty. But what you're asking is, is he getting old. Yes, he is."

"And the letter said he was dying, eh?"

Flora closed her eyes. "Yes. It did."

The letter was still in her pocket. The shaky handwriting was nearly illegible. "It did... between the lines."

"I don't know why that means you have to go back to watch, though."

He didn't know about the treasure, and she wasn't sure she wanted to tell him. She wasn't sure she could get away without telling him, really, but it was still a big leap of faith, and she was still recovering from the landing of her last one. "I'd like to see him, one last time," she said. "And... there's something to decide."

"Oh?"

"Keeping the robots in tune is a full-time job. Bruno never found any apprentice or successor. I don't know why, I think perhaps he never trusted anyone enough. I don't know if anyone could learn how without his guidance, and even if they could, it would take them time. And I don't know if anyone who could figure it out fast enough would be willing to take a job kidnapping robots in a small town full-time..."

"Eh, people are strange," said Don Paolo, and she couldn't help thinking he would know. "There's probably someone out there."

"I don't really have time to find them, though. The problem's going to start sooner. See, they're going to start running down. Not all at once, but soon. First one, then another. Imagine being in a small town, living a normal life, and then suddenly, people start collapsing. Dying. Never waking up. More and more of them. Until nobody's left." She shuddered.

Don Paolo looked at her; his eyes met hers in the reflection. "Not the kindest fate," he conceded. "But they are just robots."

"That doesn't mean it's all right to be cruel to them." A lesson she'd learned later than she would've liked.

Don Paolo shrugged. "What's your alternative?"

"There's an off switch," she said. "I could shut them all down, at once. They wouldn't know what was happening. They wouldn't see it coming, and suffer, or short-circuit. If they ever were to be revived, they'd just-- wake up, refreshed, like nothing ever happened." She looked down at her lap; she was wringing her hands.

"Might be a kindness," said Don Paolo. "Certainly more convenient."

"But I don't know. I don't know whether or not it's right. And I don't know if I can bring myself to do it." She laughed, painfully. "They're not people, I don't think, but they think they are, and they're the only family I had for such a long time. I don't know."

"Ah." She waited for more, but Don Paolo was quiet. The rain was just barely audible, now, over the purr of the engines, when the wind lashed it against the sides. The bird nestled close against her neck.

"Well, you've got about another hour to think about it," said Don Paolo. "Just try not to look too upset when we land. They may be winding down, but they've still got the time to tie me to a millstone and toss me in that river of theirs."

She laughed, despite herself-- at the image, at the knowledge that they probably would do it, at herself and this whole mad plan. "I'll do my best."

-

The rain had turned to mist by the time they landed; Flora shivered, not sure whether to blame the cold or just returning to this place. It pulled at deep-seated memories, and yet it was also different. They'd landed roughly where a Ferris wheel used to be; that stupid tower that had used to dominate the landscape was gone--

"Oh, no," she realized, putting a hand to her mouth. "I've no idea where to find him."

Don Paolo shrugged. "It's not as if there's many places he could be," he pointed out.

"I guess that's true. He's probably not still in the tower..."

"If he is, he's a fool. The place hardly looked structurally stable." Flora resisted the urge to name the elephant in the room; they both knew who was to blame for that. Though she supposed it had never _looked_ structurally stable to begin with. "And if he's in the damned amusement park, he's a bigger fool. Let's get out of here."

Don Paolo stalked toward the exit; Flora followed, still a little wary despite herself. This place looked so depressing. None of the townspeople would go near it, for almost as far back as she could remember, and from the state of the place, that hadn't changed. The trees loomed, black branches grasping downward in the flickering streetlights. Booths that had been simply abandoned were starting to sag and sway. She winced away from the occasional poster that still showed her faded, childish face.

She loved her father, but the older she got, the less she understood him.

The gates were chained; Don Paolo grumbled to himself and rummaged around in his pockets. He stood carefully between her and the gates for a few moments, and the chain came away in his hands with a faint crack. If he didn't want to share the secrets of his trade, she certainly wasn't going to ask.

The streets were mercifully deserted. Flora thought at first it was the fog and the chill, but Adrea was always out, anywhere but at home. Wasn't she? The lights of the restaurant were on-- was it always open this late?

"Let's go in," said Don Paolo; she turned, startled. She'd have expected him to want to get in and out of this place as quickly as possible. "It's colder than--" He stopped; odd how he still had a sense of propriety. "It's freezing out here and we could both use a drink. Of different sorts, if I can get one. Come on."

She nodded; a cup of tea did sound heavenly right now. Or hot chocolate, if she could get it. Apple cider... but she hadn't ever seen that on the menu here, and the menu never changed.

Don Paolo opened the door for her, and obligingly, she went inside. The lights were dimmer than usual. She looked around for the source; one bulb had burnt out. She didn't like what else she saw while she was looking. There was a layer of dust on the tables. A window was cracked. The daily special wasn't chalked up.

Crouton was behind the bar, as always, polishing a glass. "Oh, hello, Flora."

"Hello," she answered. He was all right enough to still recognise her, but then, she was hard-wired into their memories. She suspected they'd remember her until the moment they... shut down. "How are you?"

"Business is a bit slow," he said. "It's been quiet since the last time I saw you. Who's your friend?"

"Don," said Don Paolo, before she could answer. "D'you happen to keep anything hard behind that bar of yours?"

His eyes lit, and Flora sighed to herself; he'd flipped the 'stranger' switch in Crouton's head. It was practically visible when you'd seen it enough times. "Oh, I could get you something," said Crouton, "but I'm afraid I've misplaced one of my measuring containers..."

"Have you, now," said Don Paolo, flatly.

"I'd be able to get you some juice if--"

"Has it been fermented yet--"

"--I hadn't misplaced my four-quart measuring container--"

"Your judgement of just how much liquor I am looking for is... entirely accurate, actually."

"--but I do have this five-quart and three-quart--"

"I can see the four-quart container right there on the shelf, you know."

"--and if you could somehow--"

Don Paolo turned to Flora. "Please tell me they weren't this obvious last time."

"They weren't," sighed Flora.

"--divide this 8 quarts into four?"

"The cracks are really starting to show, eh," said Don Paolo.

"Would you?" said Crouton.

"You know what really got me?" said Don Paolo. "Watch. _No._ "

"Could you please?" said Crouton.

"No," growled Paul.

"Please?"

"No!" Don Paolo slammed his fists on the counter.

"Are you sure?"

"I am completely sure!"

"I can't serve you if you can't get me four quarts of juice," said Crouton, folding his arms.

"Since I never actually _asked_ for juice--"

"Would you?" asked Flora.

Don Paolo glared at her.

"You know I can't talk to him otherwise." As he evidently had experienced, the robots were absolutely singleminded once their puzzle-dispensing routines had been triggered. Odd, given that they were supposed to be winnowing people out. Maybe the unsuitable were supposed to be driven from the city screaming, Flora thought grimly.

Don Paolo muttered a word she was fairly certain she wasn't supposed to know, and snatched the three-quart container most ungraciously. "You owe me for this one, girl."

Don Paolo started pouring juice from container to container, and Flora pulled on Crouton's sleeve to get his attention. "It's really been quiet?"

"Nothing much seems to happen with you gone," said Crouton. "Even the kidnappings stopped eventually. Haven't heard of any in... a fortnight or so, now."

Of course. "How is everyone doing?"

"Pretty well," said Crouton. "There's a nasty flu going around, though."

"Oh?"

"Gosh, I don't know how many people have come down with it," he said. "It hits them hard. I think half the town is stuck in bed."

"Right." Flora stared at the counter. The bird shifted on her shoulder; it was vaguely comforting. "Has there been anyone new around town recently?"

Crouton frowned. "Other than your friend? I don't... Oh, I think Beatrice might have a visitor. I haven't seen them, though. She mentioned something about it... a week or two ago? I don't remember when I saw her last."

That made sense. If he wasn't in the ruins of the tower, or his catacombs-- they hadn't checked underground, yet, had they? Beatrice's inn was probably the place to start, though. She didn't like the sewers much, and she wasn't sure what sort of hiding places he might have there that she'd never seen. And if he'd got a letter to her, he surely must have been above-ground at some point...

"Oh, you've got it!" said Crouton, turning to Don Paolo.

"Sorry, that was mostly by accident." Don Paolo grimaced. "Please tell me you're done."

"I think that's all I need to hear."

"Here you are!" Crouton proudly set the five-quart pitcher (with four quarts of juice) in front of him.

"What, don't I get a little umbrella?"

Crouton frowned. "It's not raining..."

Don Paolo sighed and took the pitcher. "Crouton, do you happen to have any hot chocolate?" Flora asked.

"That... doesn't go in a pitcher," he said.

"Right, I didn't think so," she sighed.

"I'm sorry, Lady Flora..."

"No, no, that's all right." She always had to hasten to comfort them when they thought they'd upset her, which could be for reasons as simple as having told her something that might come as a disappointment. Even Adrea, so fearless with everyone else... it was simply built into them. She hadn't realised how uncomfortable it made her, hadn't realised it was happening at all, until she'd moved to London, and met people whose lives didn't revolve around her perceived happiness. She was still learning how to cope with that, but on the whole, she found she greatly preferred it.

Don Paolo took a cautious sip of his drink, and immediately spat it back out. "Damn, I think this actually _has_ fermented."

Flora glanced at Crouton, who didn't appear concerned in the slightest about Don Paolo's opinion. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

"It's a process of _controlled_ fermentation. If I wanted makeshift swill like this, I'd just go to prison." Don Paolo shoved the pitcher back at Crouton. "Come on, let's get out of here."

"Yes." She hopped up. "Goodbye, Crouton."

"Hope to see you again soon, Lady Flora!" he called after them.

She winced as the door shut behind her. If she went through with this, he might never see her again. Could she live with that? Could she live with the consequences of not doing that? She didn't know.

Don Paolo was watching her; she didn't know what to make of his expression. "Come on, let's find this-- gentleman," he said, biting the word ‘gentleman’ out like a curse. "The inn, eh?"

"It seems like a good place to start." She kept pace with him; she didn't want to lag behind, but part of her still wanted him where she could see him. It was only a couple of blocks to the inn from here. It seemed so small, now that she had finally grown somewhat accustomed to London. Like a pair of old shoes she’d already outgrown.

They were near the clock tower, now. A small figure emerged from the alleyway. “Lucy?” Flora called. “What are you doing out, at this time of night?”

“Flora!” Lucy ran up and hugged her. “You’re bigger,” she said, squinting up at her. “Why are you bigger?” 

“Don’t be rude,” said Don Paolo.

“She means _taller_ ,” Flora said, annoyed. Then again, what would he know about getting taller? “Lucy, really, what are you doing out this late?”

“I dunno,” she said. “I’m waiting for grandfather to get better. He’s been stuck in bed for ages and… I don’t want to go home.”

“Oh, Lucy,” Flora sighed. 

“He hasn’t even said anything to me for… I’m sure he’s fine,” said Lucy. “But I feel like I should get him some medicine or something, and all the stores are closed.”

“Well, at this time of night--”

“No, even the vendors have been closed for days now,” said Lucy. “Everyone’s getting sick. Even the people who aren’t really sick are a little sick.” She scuffed her feet against the ground, looking down. “I guess it’s only a matter of time before I get sick, too.”

“No, Lucy, no,” said Flora. “It’s going to be all right.”

“But if I don’t get sick, everyone else will still be sick, and I’ll be all alone still,” said Lucy.

“I’m going to fix it,” said Flora. “I promise.”

“How?”

Flora shook her head. She couldn’t get into that right now. “You know I wouldn’t lie to you,” she said, instead.

Lucy nodded. “Of course not,” she said. “Well, I guess that’s all right then. Are you back for good now?”

“I’ll be here for a little while,” said Flora, “but then I have to go back.”

“Well, I hope I can see you again before you go,” said Lucy. “But I should get home now. I’m not supposed to stay out late.”

“You be careful,” said Flora. Lucy nodded, and started to hurry away. “Goodnight, Lucy!”

“Goodnight, Flora!” she called back, and was gone.

“You’re pretty good at that,” said Don Paolo.

“At what?”

“Manipulating them. They can’t question you, can they?”

“Not… not really,” she said. Though she’d never have thought to put it that way. “Not much. Not in that way.”

“I guess you’d have to learn to handle the things, living here.”

“Please don’t call them things,” said Flora, and started again toward the inn. It was only a few houses away, now, as easily identifiable as ever-- though it was odd, she thought, that the windows were quite so dark.

Flora knocked; she heard no answer, but she opened the door after a few moments anyway. "Beatrice?" Flora called. The lobby was too dim; the floors looked like they hadn't been cleaned in far too long. "Beatrice, are you here?"

"Flora!"

She jumped. Beatrice had been right where she usually was, at her desk, but she was slumped over it, stretching out with an audible creak. "Hello, there, dearie! It's been an age!"

Her voice sounded hoarse; there was something about the way she was moving that wasn't quite right. "Beatrice, are you all right?"

"Oh, I'm just down with the flu that's going around, I think. I thought I was all right, but..." She shrugged, or attempted to. "Meant to head to bed, but it hits fast, doesn't it? You shouldn't get too close, dear, I wouldn't want you catching it."

"It's all right," said Flora, ignoring the stab of pain in her heart for now. "Don't worry about it. Beatrice, is there someone here?"

"Someone here?"

"A guest," said Flora. "Crouton said you had one?"

"No, I... or maybe... I'm so sorry, dear, I've had the hardest time remembering the poor man. Yes, there's... someone upstairs. I'm afraid I can't remember his name, though."

Flora remembered with alarm that the villagers always had found Bruno forgettable-- maybe programmed that way on purpose, to help with his repair efforts. But with him ill, that meant-- "I'm going to go check on him, is that all right?"

"Oh, certainly, dearie, but--"

Flora didn't wait for her to finish; she headed directly for the stairs. "But who's this?" Beatrice continued.

"He's a friend!" Flora called. Don Paolo hadn't waited for her approval, either; he was directly behind her, which was probably fortunate. There weren't many rooms to check. The back room was empty, still cluttered with Luke's things; the front room bore clear marks of Professor Layton, and there was a shape in the bed, a shape that-- coughed, oh, thank god. "Flora," he rasped.

She stepped toward the bed; Don Paolo headed immediately for the pile of papers at the desk. She didn't care, right now. "Bruno..."

"I'm sorry to... bring you all this way." His voice was weak in a way that sparked an instinctive terror in her. She knew this; she remembered this.

"It's all right," said Flora. "I should've come back a long time ago." She took his hand; it was cold, with roughened palms and papery wrinkles on its back. The bird chirped again, sounding almost worried.

"No," said Bruno. "You shouldn't have had to come back at all. This... was never really a place for you."

"Of course it was a place for me," she said. That-- that was entirely the problem.

He took a deep breath, shakily. "I fear we... haven't much time. Did you bring someone who..."

"Why the _hell_ is there so much _volatile_ memory?!"

"Excellent, excellent." He craned his neck to look at Don Paolo, without much success. "He'll understand."

"You've got a lot to answer for, old man," said Don Paolo, shaking a rolled-up set of blueprints at him.

"I know," said Bruno, wearily. "I know."

"I mean, I don't have to ask why you took the gig," said Don Paolo. "I'd have done the same. Unlimited funds? No oversight but a dotty old man? You don't have to explain that to me. But for god's sake, man, _volatile_ memory?"

"It doesn't work otherwise," said Bruno. His eyes were only half-open; he seemed to struggle to focus. "You can't hard-code the responses. The possibilities... exponential. To create believable responses..."

"For certain values of 'believable'... oh, never mind that. You really couldn't have set up a successor? The man was clearly richer than God, you can't tell me you couldn't have found someone to take up the job?"

"By the time I realised I didn't have a choice," said Bruno, "I didn't have a chance. I couldn't... can't leave. It wasn't supposed to happen. When she left... it was all supposed to end."

Don Paolo's eyes narrowed. "There's a remote shutoff, she said, isn't there?"

"Yes," said Bruno.

"And I'm going to have to explain to her what that means."

"I'm sorry."

Don Paolo let out a long sigh. "Don't bother," he said. "I probably deserve it. Never mind, then."

"You're kind," said Bruno.

"I'm self-aware enough to know I'd have done the same," Don Paolo corrected, "which is basically the opposite."

Bruno laughed, a little, though it sounded like it hurt him. "Fair enough," he said. "Flora... I wanted to say I'm sorry."

"Don't be," said Flora, holding his hand tighter. "If it weren't for you, I would have been alone."

"If it weren't for me, he'd have had no choice... he'd have had to send you out there. Couldn't have closed you away. Had such a horror of the world outside. Maybe I shouldn't judge. Probably had a point." He coughed again.

"Can I get you some water?" she offered, by reflex. Her head was elsewhere, realising that he was right. The town wouldn't have worked without him. She'd have been... what would have become of her? Would she have been sent away? Left in the manor alone? He would have had to find someone to run his estate, surely, someone real-- a barrister or an agent or... some real person, who might have taken horrible advantage of her.

Or might have set her free.

"Don't you... worry about that," he said. His voice was getting weaker. "Been waiting for you. Couldn't just... leave it."

"Except that you did," said Don Paolo. She didn't bother trying to remonstrate; she kept her eyes on Bruno. She wasn't, she feared, going to have a second chance at this.

"I should've... done a lot of things," said Bruno. "Flora, you know what you've got to do."

She ducked her head. "But, they're..." She didn't even know how to finish. They were too real to simply shut off. They were too real to be allowed to suffer this way.

"I don't blame you for... leaving it," he said. "They're all you knew. But Flora... it can't stand, Flora. They're amazing. They're my life's work. But they're not... they're still not _real_."

"They are," said Flora, her voice breaking.

"They're not alive, Flora. You've... you've got to see that, by now."

How? Who was she to say what was alive and what wasn't? What did it even mean, to be 'alive', to be 'real'? "They don't know that," she said.

"I know," said Bruno. "I shouldn't have... shouldn't have put it on you. I didn't realise... I didn't think it would even... didn't think it would even be a choice. But don't let it... don't let it happen this way. Promise me, Flora."

"...I can't," she said. "I can't promise right now. I don't know what to do."

He looked up at her, sadly. "Well," he said, "it's your right. Just... do the right thing."

"I'll try," she said.

"Don't think... too harshly of him. He had his reasons. It's a terrible world, out there." He shut his eyes. "And thank you."

"Thank you?"

"For seeing me off," he said. His voice was sounding further and further away. "Take care, girl. Take care."

“Bruno…” But he was going, and she couldn’t call him back. His eyes had shut; his hand went limp.

Flora knew death when she saw it. She’d seen it before. Something in her just didn’t quite believe it, though. She should be crying, she should be-- she didn’t know what she should be feeling, and right now she just felt-- confused.

That wore off, though. She knew it from experience. She should probably try to get this done before it did.

“Let’s go,” she said, and Don Paolo made no objection. She did notice he’d stuffed a few papers in his coat, but she didn’t begrudge him for it. Hadn’t she practically promised that as his payment? Weren’t they likely as not to need it? Did she want his knowledge to die with him? 

He was _dead_ , and--

She couldn’t think about that right now. 

Flora hurried down the stairs; Beatrice stirred as they passed. “See you soon, Flora,” she said, her voice stuttering and low. They did that, when they were winding down. It always sent chills down her spine.

She burst out the door, breathing heavily, and stopped, in the street, holding herself tightly. The bird chirped quietly in her ear. She could do this. Just a little longer; just a little further.

“I can’t bloody imagine,” said Don Paolo.

Flora shook her head, struggling to orient herself. “Pardon?”

“Growing up in this place,” he said. “With these… people.”

She appreciated his unusually diplomatic choice of words. “I don’t know what it was like,” she said. “I’ve nothing to compare it to.”

“Haven’t you?”

“Come on,” she said. “We’ve got to get to the manor, and it’s a long way from… no, nothing is a long way from anything in this town, is it?” She’d thought it was a long way when she lived here, but…

“I can’t bloody imagine,” said Don Paolo, again, and started toward the clock tower. 

“The world’s so big,” she said, following him. “It’s so big and there’s so many people in it. I want to understand. I want to see how much bigger it really is. I want to see everything.” She grimaced. “Of course, the one chance I got to see the world outside of London, I got drugged and stuffed away in a barn..."

"Right," said Don Paolo. "I should apologize for that."

"Will you, then?" she said, feeling quite prickly still about the whole affair.

"I'm sorry." He sounded at least somewhat sincere.

As long as she had him here, she might as well ask. "Why, though? Why did you do it?"

"I needed to get on the train."

"You could've stowed away--"

"They weren't quite that incompetent. Close, though," he added, with an annoyed growl. He was a failure himself, but he seemed to abhor incompetence.

"You could've picked someone else."

"Beluga had too much inside knowledge, couldn't fake it long enough. Same with that idiot Thunder boy of his, plus playing him for any length of time would've probably made me throw myself under the wheels. And I needed the Professor to track down the mystery of the box."

They still weren’t at the river. She edged closer to the real question. "You could've picked Luke."

"No, I couldn't."

"Why not?"

"The wretched animal thing," said Don Paolo. "Their whole history. He doesn't leave the man's sight. Plus, the man actually talks to him."

That stung; Flora wrapped her arms around herself. It stung, but she wanted to hear more. "And me?"

"He'd let you stay behind because he didn't think you belonged there at all. He'd excuse lapses and weaknesses because he didn't expect any more from you. He'd ignore mistakes because he didn't know you well enough to realise I'd made them."

That _hurt_. She hugged herself tightly; she didn't want to cry in front of him. She wouldn't.

"Is that," he said, "what you wanted to hear?"

"Yes," she said.

His voice went almost soft for a moment. "Of course it's true," he said. "Of course you're not mad. Of course he doesn't actually love you just the same."

She shut her eyes tight. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry or scream a denial or-- or thank him.

“It drives you mad, doesn’t it?” he said, sympathetically. “He’s a perfect bloody gentleman. It’s so impossible to explain that sometimes, that’s the problem.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes.” But she couldn’t take any more of this. She pushed ahead, to the bank of the creek. Ramon was nowhere to be seen, but the boat was here. She stepped in, and Don Paolo followed, taking up the steering-oar. The Professor would have brought up some variation of that wolf, sheep, and cabbage puzzle. She was just as glad he wasn’t here. The sheep and the wolf crossing together unsupervised would have been an illegal move. Or would that just make her a cabbage, in his mind? 

She didn’t want to think about it. “So how is it faring?” she said. “Your project.”

“He’s driving me absolutely mad,” said Don Paolo. “But we’re not yet dead and we’ve made some people exceptionally unhappy. So that’s at least a partial victory.”

She shook her head. The crossing was done; she stood, and hopped over the side of the boat to the other shore. The road to the manor was too long, not long enough. What was she going to do? 

“What would you do?” she asked.

“Shut them down and disassemble them to figure out how they work,” said Don Paolo. “But I’m guessing you’re not going to want to follow my example.”

“Do you think they’re alive?”

“I wouldn’t know. I can’t say I particularly care.”

“Isn’t that the biggest question?”

“Perhaps,” he said, “but does it actually make a difference?”

“It makes every difference! It’s the difference between-- between unplugging a toaster and stabbing a man!”

“The way I see it,” he said, “if they’re not alive, if they are just things, it doesn’t matter a damn whether you leave them on or shut them off. Not any more or less ethical than letting a clock run down, no matter what noises it makes as you’re doing it. And if they aren’t just things--” He shook his head, clearly dubious of that interpretation. “Letting this place just slowly run down is possibly even more cruel than building it in the first place. If they’re people, that is, and not just sideshow attractions. But I’ve hardly met them. What do you think they are?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Both. Neither. I keep changing my mind. They’re not just clockwork. But they’re not… they’re also not...” 

“Well, of course you’re confused,” he said. “These are the best automata anyone’s ever built since the Azran. They’re built to seem as human as possible. They’re made to confuse the issue.”

“That doesn’t make me any less confused!” It made her feel a little less stupid for it, though. Which was nice, but it didn’t solve the problem at hand.

“And you say you couldn’t ask them what they want? Not that it would be a good idea, mind you.”

She shook her head. 

“What would you want, then?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know. I guess it’s not… if I used my money to get someone to study the schematics, I could always hire someone to figure it out and turn them back on again later...”

He sighed. “There’s something else I should tell you,” he said. 

“About volatile memory?” she guessed.

“Not bad. Yes. Volatile memory is a sort of memory on a computer chip,” he said, “that only works as long as power is running to it, as long as it’s being used. Once the power is shut off, everything stored in volatile memory is gone. There’s no bringing it back.”

And he’d been saying something… something about Bruno making them with a lot of volatile memory. “So you’re saying that even if we turn them back on… a lot of their memory will be lost?”

“I can’t say how much without a lot more time to study the schematics,” he said. “Maybe not even then, depending on how much they’ve drifted from the specs. But there’s a lot of volatile memory. I don’t know how much they’ve got that isn’t.”

Well. There went that excuse. “They might forget me?” That was-- almost not a bad idea.

“I’m not sure they’d even remember themselves,” he said. “They might have to start from scratch. D’you remember how he conditioned them in the first place? No, of course you don’t, you were a little girl…”

She shut her eyes, trying to remember if she’d seen anything. When new people had arrived in the village, had there been any clues? When “Violet” had turned into Dahlia, had there been any indications? She didn’t know, she’d been so young, it had all been done behind her back. Wasn’t there anything she could glean…? They’d all seemed to know who they were when she’d been introduced to them. Hadn’t they?

"Then again, the man had to wind the things up periodically, didn't he? And they managed fine then. Unless he'd an alternate power source while he was recharging them, that might be a sign that there's more in permanent memory than I thought. That's the thing: I can't say. They could forget almost everything, they could forget almost nothing. Even the old man himself might not have any idea, and if he did--" Don Paolo stopped himself; apparently even he had a few limits. 

They were at the doors. “Hell,” she said, and immediately felt a little bad for it. But she didn’t know any other words that fit the situation. Though her roommate would probably teach her soon enough. 

“It’s in here, then?”

“Could you stay out here, for a minute?” she said. She was trusting him awfully far, but letting him see how to get into the vault seemed too foolish a risk to take.

He sighed. “Fine, fine, just hurry it up.”

The manor doors were rarely actually locked; they creaked open as she pushed them, and she was afraid that Matthew would be roused, afraid that he wouldn’t, couldn’t be. He wasn’t here, at any rate, and she walked toward the painting of herself. She’d hated sitting for it; it had shown on her face. She was frowning, in a way that could be excused as stern decorum, but it just looked like misery to her. Had it been that bad? 

It had been that bad, and worse. Who was she kidding? She’d been sad and lonely and grieving, with a father who thought that robots were enough to fill the void. It seemed as if they had been, for him. It had never quite worked the same for her.

Flora reached up and pressed the spot that would unlock the door. It swung open. She didn’t like showing Don Paolo where the vault was, but that could hardly be helped. She went to the door, and opened it a crack; he was already tapping his feet in frustration. “You can come in now,” she said, and led him through the doors.

The vault was just as intimidating as she remembered it, piles of gold bars and coins littered about haphazardly. And-- oh, no; there was the recording again, as well. She didn’t want to hear it. She didn’t want to hear his voice again right now.

“Flora, my little Flora… Flora, you’ve made it here at last…”

“Oh, no,” said Don Paolo.

“My dear Flora, has the village watched over you as I would have? I built St. Mystere for you so that you would never have to know true loneliness. Well, to be fair, Bruno did the actual building, but that’s beside the point.”

Don Paolo slapped his forehead. “In any case, if you’ve come this far, I suppose it’s safe to assume my plan was a success. My greatest regret is that I’m not there to see you become a young woman. But please know that I want nothing more than for you to be happy. Whether the person by your side right now can give you that or not is up to you, I suppose.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” said Don Paolo. “Was he _matchmaking_?!”

Flora winced. “...heartiest congratulations,” the recording continued. “Few could make it through the barrage of puzzles I set before you. I imagine a person of your abilities has already caught on, but allow me to reveal St. Mystere’s secret. Recently, I was told by my physician--”

“Has Layton ever figured _out_ that the old ba-- the old man was matchmaking?” Don Paolo said, talking over the recording without remorse. She didn’t particularly mind; she didn’t want to hear this part again.

“I wish I… no, I don’t want to know,” said Flora, changing her mind even as she said it.

“At least this way, she’ll be safe and protected until she’s old enough to venture to the outside world.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Don Paolo, “the rich really _are_ different. Surely Layton must have cottoned on that--”

“How would I tell?”

“Good point,” Don Paolo said, with a wince. “He’d behave the same either way.”

“Equally important to me is finding someone to whom I can entrust both my daughter and my fortune.”

“On the other hand,” said Don Paolo, “he usually isn’t _stupid_.”

Flora covered her eyes with her hands.

“Then again,” he mused, “when he is, he’s _profoundly_ stupid, and it’s in regards to matters exactly like this.”

“This is why everything in this room, the whole of my fortune, belongs to you now. When you remove it from here, St. Mystere will complete the objective for which it was created. I imagine the inhabitants will fall into a deep sleep from which they are never to awaken.”

“Ah,” said Don Paolo. “I see. So you took another option, and left without any of it. I can’t imagine that sentimental idiot put up any resistance.”

By that, of course, he meant the Professor. “Of course not.”

“Maybe he should’ve,” said Don Paolo. “It might have been kinder. You wouldn’t be here now.”

“I wasn’t ready,” said Flora. “I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t do it. I don’t know if…”

She wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready. She wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do. She wasn’t sure she could leave it behind.

“I leave it to you, brave traveller,” her father said. “Draw the curtain on St. Mystere, and lay this lifeless village to rest.” 

Flora shut her eyes. It was that simple, wasn’t it? He was telling her to, wasn’t he? “Above all else, take care of my precious daughter,” said her father. “She’s in your hands now.”

Flora looked down at her arms. Her hands were firmly wrapped around herself, hugging her tight. She knew what her father had meant, but…

_She’s in your hands now._

“Are you ready?” said Don Paolo.

“No,” she answered. “How would it even… how would it even be triggered? Do we have to take something out of here?”

“That would be idiotic and prone to all sorts of accidents,” said Don Paolo, “so I suppose it’s perfectly possible. But it’s more likely there’s some sort of pressure plate. Under the mass of it, perhaps, or… oh, that looks likely.”

She looked where he was pointing. Behind a stack of gold bars, there was a golden tiara on a pedestal. She hadn’t seen it last time, somehow. Then again, she hadn’t been looking very closely. She hadn’t cared about this place, nor the riches within it.

Don Paolo stepped forward, examining the pedestal. “Yes, this is probably it,” he said. “Are you ready?”

“No,” she said, again. She wasn’t. She never would be. It was too much, everything was too much, and--

“I could do it for you,” he said. He shifted a little, toward the treasure, and something about that-- something about that galvanized her.

“No,” she said. “This is my decision. This is my responsibility. I’m doing this myself.”

And she knew what she was doing. She wouldn’t have come here otherwise. She wouldn’t have made her way to the town, she wouldn’t have made her way to the vault. She knew what she was going to do.

She reached out her hands, though they were shaking, and lifted the crown from the pedestal.

She half expected an explosion, a flash of lights, a siren, something to mark the occasion; but there was nothing, nothing but an invisible weight settling silently on her shoulders. She turned, holding the crown out to Don Paolo.

“No,” he said, “that’s yours, I think. You’ve earned it.”

She trembled. She weren’t sure if that was was a kindness, or a cruelty. She placed it on her head; it would be easier than carrying it.

“I wouldn’t say no to some of that, though,” he said, gesturing at the rest of the vault.

Flora laughed. Well, she could hardly blame him. “Get a pillowcase,” she said.

He took her at her word, and was gone in an instant. She walked over to the piles of gold, wondering how much it was actually worth, what she was supposed to do with it all. There was a small stack of paperwork on a desk that was hidden in the corner; legal documents, maybe stock options? Those would be more practical for now. She rolled them up and tucked them into a pocket to figure out later. Something else caught her eye-- an emerald necklace, given pride of place. She remembered it, from photographs. It was her mother’s. She took it, and tucked it into her other pocket.

“You realise,” said Don Paolo, returning with a pillowcase, “that I’m literally going to fill this pillowcase. Granted, you owe me a lot for this little ferry ride, but that’s still one hell of a fare.”

“Consider it a donation to the cause,” said Flora. “And… I’ll think of something.”

“Eh?”

“I might want to commission you sometime,” said Flora. “I think… I think I want an airship someday. You seem to have a talent for building those, don’t you?”

“Oh, god, I should’ve got two,” said Don Paolo, and started shoving coins and gems into his bag. It didn’t take him long; there was only so much he could comfortably carry, and the pillowcase wasn’t actually anywhere near full at all. The second he seemed satisfied, she turned, and headed back out of the doorway. She looked up at the stairwell, hesitant, as Don Paolo clambered out after her. Had it even worked? Should she check?

“It worked,” said Don Paolo. “I-- saw one. You don’t need to go up there.”

She nodded, willing enough to accept any excuse to leave this place. She shut the painting behind them, leaving it all behind.

They walked out into the cold of the night. Flora was still wearing her crown. She didn’t want to think about what she’d just done. She wanted to put it behind her. She never wanted to forget. In silence, they walked back down the hill; Don Paolo said nothing as he piloted the boat back to the opposite shore. 

Part of her wanted to look down every side-street, memorize this place; part of her wanted to take off running and never come back. But she would be back. There was a whole vault to deal with. And someday… someday, she’d get someone to come here. Maybe they could repair what had been broken. Or maybe they could learn enough to make something new of their own. Something less… for some other reason than to gild a cage. Was there a good reason, to create such things? She wasn’t sure. She’d think about it. She had time, now.

But they had been made, and they had existed, and maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to bring them back. 

They were passing the restaurant; she darted away, to look in the window. Crouton was motionless at the counter, frozen, his face blank. It wasn’t that she hadn’t believed him, but--she had to see for herself.

“Come on,” said Don Paolo. “Let’s get you out of here.” 

He pulled her away from the window, and she let him. He left his arm linked in hers, and she looked down at it, wondering. He’d been callous and abrasive, of course, but all in all, particularly for him, he’d been… nice. Incredibly nice, really.

“Why are you being so kind to me?” she asked.

He was silent for a long moment; she wasn’t sure he was going to answer. "When I was young," Don Paolo said, quietly, "my mother decided she didn't want me anymore. She left me with my aunt, a bitter old spinster who was bitter about everything but her spinsterhood. And then there I came to ruin it. But I wasn't in the mood for another mother figure. The one I had was trouble enough. So she lived her life and I lived mine, and once she realised I wasn't going to demand anything from her, she felt safe to give a little once in a while."

"I don't understand why you're telling me this."

"I see you," he said, "with a perfectly nice man, trying to make him a father figure, and also trying desperately not to, because you can tell, can't you? You know perfectly well he doesn't actually want a daughter. He's trying to 'do right' by you, he'll provide you anything material you need, but he's not your father and he never will be. Shouldn't have to be. You were dumped on his doorstep. It's not his fault, it's sure as hell not yours. It is what it is, and most of the time it's fine, but sometimes, once in a while, it hurts like hell.

"So that's why I... feel for you," he said. "You need somebody to tell you it's all right to feel hurt by the whole stupid thing and his callous idiocy. And you know what? You also need somebody to tell you it's all right _not_ to. Sometimes, you might not give a damn what he thinks about you, because you never asked to be his daughter, either. And you know what? _That's fine too._ "

She shut her eyes. It was too much. It was true and it wasn’t true and it was all far too much to contemplate, tonight, with a crown weighing heavy on her head. “I’ll think about that,” she said, “later.”

“Good idea.” They were nearly back at the vehicle, now. “But if you need to complain about it-- well, apparently you know where to find me. Though I’d still love to know how the hell you pulled that off.”

She smiled, shakily. “A lady mustn’t reveal her secrets.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” he snorted, and opened the passenger door. “C’mon, girl. Let’s get you home.”

She settled down in the back seat, exhausted, and let her head tilt back, let the hum of the motor fill her head. The bird chirruped again; the crown weighed her head down against the headrest. And so she was leaving St. Mystere, for the second time. It was entirely different, and it was exactly the same.

She looked out the window, at the woods, at the ruins, at the rain; and the rain turned into clouds, and the clouds into fuzzy grey darkness, and at some point, her eyes slipped shut. 

And she was in Beatrice’s hotel, sitting by Bruno’s bed, waiting for him to come back, to open his eyes, but he was long gone. There was no use sitting there feeling sorry for herself, so she got up and tried to leave, but there wasn’t any door. And he’d turned into her father, while she wasn’t looking, and the room was locked shut, and the walls were all solid, the window immovable; and she was alone in a room with the shell of the man she’d loved most in all the world, and she was screaming, and no one could hear her.

Except that wasn’t how it happened. No, Lady Dahlia had been there (and here she was), and she’d tried to hold her, but Lady Dahlia had no daughter. Lady Dahlia thought the man was asleep, Flora had tried again and again to explain it until she was explaining at the top of her lungs and the explanation was mostly a scream, and she’d scratched at the woman and she’d ran, ran to the very top of the tower, and she’d stayed there until the food ran out and hunger drove her back. And when she’d come back-- then, every villager knew. Then, every villager understood.

But it was a wasteland now. A wasteland, a ghost town, full of bodies, and she hadn’t checked them all, oh god, what if it hadn’t worked, what if it had missed one, what if Lucy was--

“Wake up, girl!”

She bolted upright, barely stopping herself from crying out. Don Paolo was glaring at her from the pilot’s seat.

“C’mon, girl, we’ve landed,” he said, roughly. “And if I try carrying you home, the villagers here will be after me with torches and pitchforks just the same.”

“Right,” she said, breathing heavily. “Right. Oh, god, there’s so much more to do there, there’s so much to--”

“Pay me,” said Don Paolo. “Pay me and I’ll hire a bloke. There’s plenty around who won’t ask too many questions.”

“Thank you,” she said. The panic eased, just a little. 

“Let’s get out of here.” Don Paolo opened the door. She followed; the rain had stopped, now, but the night was dark, and she hurried into the shelter of the stairwell, waiting there as Don Paolo secured his aircraft. The lights were yellow and flickering and nothing seemed real. She waited for him, until he closed the door behind him, and glared at her again, something odd in his expression she was too exhausted to register, much less try to decipher. He started down the stairs, and she followed.

The bird chirped. She wondered how long it would last before it, too, wound down. Would she be able to rebuild it? Would she be able to make a new one? Was any of that all right?

“Do you think I did the right thing?” she asked.

Don Paolo stopped in his tracks. “...Did you just ask _my_ opinion on a question of _ethics_? Almighty God, girl, we’ve got to get you home.”

“I…”

He started down the stairs again. “Next you’ll be going to the school for the blind and asking them to describe last night’s sunset.”

She wondered, though, if he really didn’t know the difference between right and wrong, or if he just chose to ignore it. “Still…”

“I don’t know what the right thing to do was. If I said I did, I imagine you’d take the truth to be the opposite. I don’t know if there was such a thing as ‘the right thing to do’. Especially not there.”

He’d taken them down to the main lobby, she realised; she followed him to the main doors, not looking at her surroundings.

“One thing I do know, though,” he said. ”It was certainly brave.”

She looked at him, waiting for the joke. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t sneering. He looked at her, perfectly level, and said, “That might have been the second-bravest thing I’ve ever seen.”

She shut her eyes. She couldn’t feel this now. She couldn’t feel this way. She’d feel it later. She’d feel it all _later_.

“Let’s get you home,” said Don Paolo. “...But first things first. Get that thing in your bag.”

“Hmm?”

He flicked his knuckles against the crown on her head, which resounded with a clang. “Oh, right,” she said, and bundled it away.

“As bad as he is,” he grumbled, pushing open the door. “Pick a disguise, I tell him. You’ve got to keep your identity safe, I tell him. And what’s he do? Lay hands on some bloody artefact that’s probably been written up in five historical journals… bloody _textbook illustrations_... man hasn’t the common sense of a turnip...”

She was tired, so tired. She couldn’t stop yet. She followed him, half-blind, as he led her back home, his complaints washing over her like the howling of wind outside her window-- a background noise, fearsome, but understandable, at a distance, safe.

“...and he says, ‘Why yes, she did. Is that important?’ Of course it’s bloody important! If he’d got his head out of his… Oh, right. We’re here, girl. Have you a plan to get in?”

She raised her head, wearily. They were approaching her school, just as he’d said. “Vic will let me in.”

“Eh?”

“My roommate,” she said. “My room’s on this side…”

“I know,” he said, and followed her around. She patted the ground around her, came up with a stone, and threw it upward, narrowly missing the glass.

A shadow moved behind the window; Vic was still here, for once, just as she’d promised, a silhouette with sharp chin-length curls moving behind the curtain. She opened the window, leaning out, looking around the grounds until she caught sight of them.

“About time you got here,” said Vic, looking between the two of them curiously. “Who’s this bloke, then?”

Flora cast around for a story and couldn’t think of one for the life of her. “A kidnapper.”

Vic rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, get up here. You en’t gonna have but a couple hours to sleep.” She tossed out her rope; Flora took it, and tried not to squeak or clamber too loudly against the wall as the older girl helped pull her up.

“To hell with that. Tell ‘em you’re sick,” Don Paolo advised. “You’ve got a hot-water bottle, haven’t you?”

“You’re a clever man,” said Vic, “and I can respect that. Bugger off ‘fore someone calls the coppers on you, eh? No one knows more about pulling a sickie than me.”

Don Paolo tossed her an ironic salute. “Best of luck, then,” he said. “And don’t you darken my doorstep again.”

“Pleasant fellow,” said Vic, shutting the window. “Where’d you dig him up?”

“It’s a long story,” said Flora, and was just alert enough to omit ‘that you wouldn’t believe’. Vic never really believed her. But she trusted her, and that meant more. “My God, I’ve got to get to bed. I’ve never been so exhausted in my life.”

“No offense intended,” said Vic, “but you look it.”

“Thanks,” Flora said wryly, and started digging through her drawers for a nightgown, as her bird fluttered to land on the lampshade. She’d cut corners tonight. She just had to get some sleep.

Vic was watching her, a speculative look in her bottle-green eyes. “What the devil have you been up to, anyway? Thought you said you were going home?”

“I did,” said Flora. 

“Hadn’t it burned down?”

“That was… This was my childhood home,” said Flora. “I claimed my inheritance. I… I think I might have grown up. I feel so much older than yesterday...” Someone was going to have to arrange a funeral for Bruno; hadn’t the man any friends or family? Who would know? Oh, what a mess… “It’s quite awful, really.”

“Yeah,” said Vic, with a nod. “Yeah, it is, isn’t it?”

Flora ducked into their water closet just long enough to take off her dress and pull her nightgown over her head. She considered splashing her face, but she didn’t want to wake herself up, and she probably wasn’t done crying anyway. She looked at her face in the mirror, swallowed hard at what she saw, and looked away.

She ducked back out into their room; Vic was watching her, still, a thoughtful look in her eyes.

“It’s got its perks, though,” she said.

Flora looked at her, confused.

“Growing up,” said Vic. “It’s awful, but it’s worth it. Me, I’d never go back.”

“Well,” said Flora, “you can’t, can you?”

“No,” said Vic. “But still. At least we’re in it together.”

Flora tried to think about that, but she couldn’t. Her head was too full; she wobbled a little, and sat down on the bed. “I--”

“Oh, for God’s sake, you need to stop talking and start sleeping. Go on!” Vic waved her off. “And if you even _think_ of not pulling a sickie tomorrow, I’m tumbling you out the window.”

“Thank you,” said Flora, getting into bed, and meant it, with all her heart.

Vic smiled, shaking her head. “Goodnight, hon.”

“Goodnight,” said Flora, and let her eyes slip shut. 

She wasn’t quite sure how she’d carry on from here. She wasn’t quite sure what she’d done. But-- _she_ had done it. All by herself. It was hers.

There was nobody to blame. There was nobody to save her. She was no one’s responsibility anymore. Her life was her own, now, and that-- that was wildly terrifying, and-- it was everything, everything she’d been craving for years now, all at once.

It felt like the first, hollow victory in a long, long war.

\--


End file.
